


Kings

by tildarcta



Category: Notre-Dame de Paris | The Hunchback of Notre-Dame - All Media Types, The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1996)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-04 19:36:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20476400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tildarcta/pseuds/tildarcta
Summary: The morning after Frollo's death, Clopin returns to the catacombs.





	Kings

**Author's Note:**

> The beginning of this is a bit sloppy, I know. The pacing doesn't work, but it gets better towards the end, trust me. At least I think so.

For the first time in years, the bells of Notre Dame did not ring as the Sun slowly climbed over the horizon. People filling the streets did not seem to miss them. Parisians knew how to celebrate – as a collective their emotions were never truly hidden, and now their fear over losing their homes had rather dramatically turned into joy. Hatred towards a man ready to burn their city and break down their church had proven strong enough to forget their hatred towards those who were different. For now.

For the first time in years, Clopin Trouillefou did not go with the celebrating people. He followed them for a moment, set the little girl in his arms down and ushered her to find her mother. Then he turned and with a questionable grace a lifetime as a pickpocket had granted him, slipped away. He passed Esmeralda and the captain, still standing on the steps and talking softly. He worried for her, so much had been put onto her shoulders recently. She was the kind of person that would voluntarily carry other people’s burdens and carry them with pride, but everyone had their limit. Being burnt alive (only almost, thank the heavens) was a limit. But she was safe for the moment and so Clopin continued past the church and old buildings that had managed to avoid the fire. He could catch up with her later.

The streets were empty. The morning light had made everyone braver and drawn out even families that had stayed in their homes through the night. It seemed as though everyone had gone with the crowd, celebrating… what? 

What were they celebrating? The death of a fanatic judge? Or Quasimodo? The bell ringer had saved their dear church, true, but it seemed far too odd to think that a whole city full of stubborn, prejudiced people could have changed their minds overnight. So maybe they had not. Clopin remembered perfectly well what had happened at the Feast of Fools. What had happened to his people soon after arriving in this country. First, they too had been welcomed, appreciated for their talent in music and handicrafts, but after the wars were over the tables had quickly been turned. The mistakes of one became the fault of all and differences became a threat. 

But maybe now… Clopin snatched a dry branch up from the ground and drew a wavy line with it on the wall next to him as he walked. Probably not, he thought. But maybe. 

He continued upstream. The air still smelled like smoke and burning wood, a scent that didn’t seem to fit the pale blue of the sky and shy sunlight. He threw the branch away wondering whether he would actually need to wash his clothes to get the smell off, and grimaced. Not that dirty clothes usually bothered him much, but this time it was different. It was personal, and a reminder of a dead man’s detestation for his people. He really hoped that the smell would just go away on its own. 

East of the graveyard there was another entrance to the catacombs, one of four that they used. Hidden at the bank of Seine it was smaller, but quicker to get through alone than by moving the heavy stone of the temple knights’ grave. Unlike the graveyard entrance, this one went straight down to the lower levels where the Court of Miracles was located. Clopin climbed down towards the water, where there were small steps leading to a hidden corner. He hopped the steps two at a time.  
Behind the corner, near the surface of the river there was a hole in the brickwork, large enough for a man to climb through. As he got to it, Clopin stopped, frowning. The bars usually closing the hole were out of place. 

“What…” he mumbled quietly to himself, tracing the edge of the stone with his fingers. Everyone should have known to leave no traces of themselves.  
He shook his head. Frollo had found them anyway, so maybe whoever had come through here had left in a hurry. It was not as if the location was a big secret anymore and besides, anyone who entered the catacombs without knowing exactly where they were going was going to get lost. The tunnels went on for miles and miles, twisting and turning like snakes. He moved the bars fully aside and climbed into the darkness.

Inside the first thing Clopin noticed was the smell. Not the smell of damp rock and dusty old skeletons, but of smoke. He took a small stick from under his tunic and set it on fire. The meagre flame threw heavy but wobbly shadows on the walls and the narrow stairs descending into nothingness, flickering but not dying. Clopin took the first steps downwards carefully, then quickened his pace and kept going until his feet hit the knee-deep water at the bottom with a splash. The air was warm and thick.

Something changed the moment he stepped into the water, but he was not sure what. As the ripples calmed down he was left with nothing but silence, and so he continued deeper. The eerie atmosphere of the world under Paris was familiar to Clopin, so familiar that he could sense something was off. He did not fear the darkness, nor the remains of people long gone buried in the catacombs, but something… something was not right.

A sound of something small hitting the water came from ahead. Clopin froze.

“Hello?” he called and lifted the light higher. “Who’s there?”

No one answered, so he took three, four, five slow steps towards the sound. Water that his legs pushed aside hit the walls of the narrow corridor.  
And suddenly there was someone in front of him.

He drew in a sharp breath, ready to fight (or run, if necessary), but stayed where he was. Dark eyes looking up at him were wide and animal-like in the dim light.

“Florica?” Clopin recognized her after the shock wore off. Florica was the youngest daughter of a stern-looking woman Clopin did not know by name. She made a small terrified noise and looked ready to collapse backwards into the water.

“Shh, it’s just me”, he whispered reassuringly, taking a step back and bending down. “It’s just Clopin.” He prodded the wall and stuck the burning stick into a tiny crack he found. The flame didn’t seem to mind. Florica did not move either. 

“Come now, there’s nothing to fear.” She breathed audibly, the high-pitched noise made louder by the long corridor. Then, very slowly she came forward, all the time looking warily at Clopin. The water was deep enough to reach her waist, but as she got close enough and Clopin took her by the hand, he saw that she was soaking wet all over. She had to have fallen. 

“There we go, little one. We are good, are we not?” Clopin pulled her carefully closer and tilted her chin upwards with his fingers, smiling. The girl wouldn’t look at him. She trembled and stayed where she was, and Clopin wondered if there were others that had managed to avoid capture as well.

“Are you alone?” he asked and was vaguely aware of the water lapping at his waist too now that he was almost on his knees. Florica did not answer, but instead coughed, still trying to cover the noise. The sense of something being off intensified.

“Were there any others left at the court?” he asked again, but this time he had to cover an urgent note in his voice. He took a firmer grasp of Florica’s fingers and turned, lifting her up as he went and walking quickly back to the stairs. He ran halfway up, where the light from outside was brighter and put her back down. 

“Now, mademoiselle, you must be brave for me and wait here.” He knelt at the steps and looked her straight in the eyes. “I’m going to go a little further to see if there’s anyone else down there and it is very important that you stay here. Can you promise me?” He waited until he saw the tiniest nod, said, “Good girl”, and rushed back down again. He had a very bad hunch. 

The feeling got worse as he waded deeper into the tunnels and the smell of smoke got stronger. _Stupid old fool, of course you should have seen this coming._ Why had he not guessed this? He passed dark rooms he knew to be filled with skeletons and tunnels he knew led to other moderately safe parts of the catacombs, but he did not stop to check any of those. If there were any people there, they were already safe. Gypsies knew the underground maze better than anyone and knew not to venture too far or deep. That was rule number one. 

His foot slipped underwater after stepping on something that felt like a human skull and he fell, face hitting the water. The flame went out and he was left in darkness. Clopin stood up, cursing, but the world around him turned out to be not as dark as he had assumed. After his eyes got used to the dimmed world, he could see reddish glow behind a corner. And he ran.

The air got hotter and more difficult to breathe as he got closer. He turned one final corner and ran down the stairs – 

– and stopped as he saw the court.

Most of whatever they had had in the court was now ashes. Remains of burned caravans were still smoking and dark particles were floating around like snow. The light was coming from a burning pile of planks to his left, although that too was slowly dimming. On the other side of the hall Clopin saw a remaining spot of colour, carriages and fabrics the fire had not reached. He took a few steps towards it and stopped immediately, as the high ceiling cracked and heavy stones fell down with a thunderous crash, raising a cloud of dust in the air. Sunlight fell down from heavens revealing the mass of smoke still gathered higher up. Apparently the hall was high enough to reach the surface. He continued slightly more carefully.

The soldiers had managed to capture most of the gypsies. They had entered through the larger corridors, but there were two smaller ones leading out from the court including the one Clopin had come from. He decided it was safe to assume that Florica was not the only one who had managed to escape.

“Hello?” he shouted. “Is there someone here?” Not too loud, he was still wary of the roof. No one answered, so he proceeded further, looking out for any signs of human beings. 

In the end, after almost 20 minutes full of coughing, grim determination and a hit to forehead from a falling stone, he found four. One was a badly burned skeleton buried under ash and blackened wood, but there was no hope in recognizing who that might have been. Second, he found something from a dark corner that broke his already weary heart into million pieces: dead bodies of a young woman and a child in her arms. They looked fine except the black soot on their skin, and Clopin assumed they had died from breathing too much smoke. He squeezed their hands quickly and continued his search.

Fourth one was alive. A young familiar-looking man was lying near one of the exits, right leg burned from the knee down and similar but not as severe marks covering his arms in a hypnotizing pattern. Clopin couldn’t remember his name – something starting with a d perhaps – but he was breathing, and that was enough. Clopin patted his cheek.

“Hello. Wake up for me, would you?” No answer. Although maybe it was good for now. That leg would have to go, poor boy. Clopin made sure he was still breathing and then hefted him over his shoulders, thanking someone silently for the boy’s slender stature. He started the slow journey back towards the tunnel leading to Florica, but before he got there, he heard someone coming down from the direction of the graveyard. Moving as silently as he could, he hid himself and the boy behind a pillar, listening closely.

“Is anyone alive?” yelled someone. “Come on”, said another. “There has to be someone left, let’s go.” From his hiding place Clopin heard steps descending the stairs, peeked to see who they were and felt relieved after seeing their colourful clothes and black beards. 

“Here”, he said coughing and carried the boy – his name was Django, Clopin remembered – into the open. There were four men, three of whom Clopin recognized. 

“Clopin!” exclaimed Hedji, a big man with a long scar on his arm. “Is he alive?”

“He is. And there is a small girl called Florica at the stairs of the river exit. Someone needs to get her.” His voice was hoarse. Hedji nodded to one of the men, who disappeared into the shadows.

“Is the graveyard open?” Hedji nodded again.

“Kaven”, he said, meaning an old healer and looking pointetly at Django still hanging limp on Clopin’s shoulders, “was on his way, but it will take time for him to get here.” 

“It’s no use if he comes down here.” Clopin coughed again. “The smoke will only poison him, the old man. I didn’t find others alive.” Hedji’s expression was grim.

“We will keep searching.”

“Do so”, Clopin said and with a final adjustment of the body he was carrying, climbed the stairs and headed for the exit.

By the time he had gotten out, the sun was up and high. He had collapsed with exhaustion as soon as he climbed out from the catacombs, Django falling next to him and old Kaven staring down at him. He had refused to let him look at his headwound – it was not big or serious, just annoying – and left him with Django. The rest of the day went similarly, with him running in and out of the tunnels, giving directions to those who arrived to help and trying to save what there was left to save. If there was one good thing about this, it was the fact that now they were allowed to work in bright daylight. No one came to interrupt them, soldiers did not watch them with suspicion and no mad judges were after them trying to locate the court.

Esmeralda and the captain did not come, but Quasimodo did. He told the lovebirds had tried but given that the captain had been shot and Esmeralda almost burned on a pyre, the bell ringer had forced them to stay behind in the church. Clopin couldn’t care less for the captain, but he was glad to hear that Esmeralda was not here. She needed rest, not the sight of their home destroyed.

Quasimodo on the other hand proved to be a priceless help. He was stronger than any of them and more than ready to do whatever was needed. Clopin couldn’t help but feel thankful and kept wondering, how something so pure could have ever been raised by Frollo. 

At the end of the day when the sun had set, Clopin found himself climbing out of the catacombs with Quasimodo one last time. They had found four more bodies and three people alive, including Florica’s mother. According to the survivors, Frollo’s soldiers had set the court on fire just before they had left, most likely on Frollo’s orders. Clopin looked up at the stars. 

“Can you take me to the cathedral?” he asked. His voice had been getting worse throughout the day and now it felt like his vocal cords were made of tree bark. After the ceiling had collapsed and the exits opened, the smoke had disappeared quickly but the effects of his first search through the ruins still lingered.

“To see Esmeralda?” Clopin nodded and Quasimodo looked at him with something that might have been pity. Clopin was too tired to care.

“Come” he said and Clopin followed him.

Clopin had never been inside the Notre Dame. It represented a lot of things he hated. Well, not necessarily God, he did not have personal experience with God and so far he had managed just fine without. But the ideas and people he had learned to associate with the cathedral were always poisonous to his people in one way or another. Although now… he glanced at Quasimodo. Nothing was ever black and white, was it?

They entered the cathedral through the main doors and he looked at the silent marvel with tired eyes, the rose windows and ceiling so high up that it seemed to reach the sky. Quasimodo took him up the stairs that went on forever, until they finally reached the attic built in the midst of dark wooden balks.

Esmeralda was sitting on a simple bench with a blanket over her shoulder, biting her lip with a worried expression on her face. 

“Quasi!”, she cried seeing them climbing the last stairs. Clopin got a glimpse of the captain sitting on a wooden chair. Esmeralda got up.

“How did it go? Are you alright?” She inhaled sharply as both Quasimodo and Clopin were finally fully visible. In the calm, bluish light of the tower she looked like an angel – not that Clopin knew what they were supposed to look like or if he even believed in them – but if something on this earth was even close, then it was Esmeralda. She dropped the blanket from around her and ran forward. 

“Quasi, Clopin! What happened, are you alright?”

“We are fine, my dear”, Clopin rasped out, becoming very aware of what they looked like, which was very much less angel-like. Both of them were more or less covered in ash and soot, the dirt soaked into the fabric of their damp clothes. Quasimodo’s hair was messed up and grey from spending so much time in the remains of their burned camp, and he imagined he did not look much better, especially with the wound on his forehead added to the mix. I had not bled in hours, but the other half of his face felt like there was an extra layer of something dry on it. He watched tiredly as Esmeralda first brushed Quasimodo’s hair aside to get a good look at his face, then turned to Clopin and slowly took off his hat.

“It’s just been a long day.” She set the hat carefully down and lifted her hand to brush cinders from his hair.

“Is there anything left?” 

“Frollo burned almost everything”, Quasimodo answered quietly. “But we saved something.”

“And the people?” Her voice was anxious as she looked at him, hands still on Clopin’s shoulders.

“Seven dead”, Clopin said. He told her the names of the ones they had recognized. Esmeralda shook her head. 

“I know only Dilaia. She was my friend when we were children. But I haven’t talked with her in a long time.” She sighed. “Now I wish I had.” 

“I’m sorry”, came the soft voice of the captain. He had stood up.

“It wasn’t your fault”, Esmeralda said without turning her gaze away. “Clopin?” Clopin had his eyes cast down, dirty hair hanging around his face and blocking Esmeralda from looking at him properly. She fell silent and for a moment the two of them just stood still.

“Clopin, thank you”, she said then, very quietly. “You did good. You know that, don’t you?” 

He didn’t move, so she wrapped her arms around him, drawing the man against herself. Clopin dropped his head onto her shoulder and hid his face. After hearing a trembling inhale Quasimodo turned away and took Phoebus with him to find water and something to eat. 

When they got back, Clopin was sitting on the bench with Esmeralda next to her. 

“Did you bring water?” she asked, and Quasimodo handed her a pitcher, trying not to look at Clopin’s glistening eyes. “Thank you. Would you have any clean pieces of fabric?” She followed him to a corner near the desk, where the miniature of the cathedral sat on the table and watched as he opened a small box and pulled out a rag, hoping it was not too dirty.

“Are you all right”, she asked gently. 

“Oh yes. I look far worse than I feel”, Quasimodo assured, and Esmeralda smiled. “What about him?”

“Clopin is exhausted. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this tired.” She took the rag. “He just feels our safety is his responsibility. But he'll be fine, don’t worry.”

They went back and Esmeralda sat again. She dipped the rag in the water and carefully rubbed off the dried blood and black stains, Clopin keeping his gaze down. She pulled the gloves off and gave him a mug of wine from a bottle Quasimodo had found, then looked closely at the cut on his forehead and decided it was not serious and only needed to be kept clean.

“Take those wet clothes off”, she instructed and gave him the same blanket she had had earlier. “And get some sleep. We’ll be safe.” Clopin smiled wearily at her. 

“What did I do to deserve you”, he whispered, and Esmeralda gave him a kiss on the cheek.

“Everything”, she said.

All four of them slept in the bell tower that night. Quasimodo had refused to stay in his own bed, if it could be called that, and offered it to Esmeralda. Phoebus stayed next to her and Clopin was hidden in some corner wrapped up in his blanket. Quasimodo was the last one up, despite the long day of work down in the catacombs. There was no way he could sleep just yet, with his tower filled with people – actual people – that he could call friends. The thought made him so happy that for a moment he let it cover the shock and sadness still rolling inside him because of what had happened over the last days. Sanctuary indeed. Sanctuary for the lost, the different, the hopeless. He touched fondly one of the wooden balks holding up the roof. The cathedral had protected them up until now and she would continue to do so. 

And with that final thought Quasimodo went to sleep.

He woke up in the early hours of morning, not knowing why. Getting up from the floor where he had slept, Quasimodo looked around and saw Esmeralda and Phoebus sleeping peacefully. Clopin however was nowhere to be seen. For a moment Quasimodo panicked and thought the gypsy had left, but after a second search his eyes stopped at a dark silhouette out on the balcony. He walked out and found Clopin barefoot, still wrapped up in the blanket and staring at the first light of morning in the eastern horizon. Cool wind moved his hair.

“Aren’t you cold?” Quasimodo asked and took a step closer. Clopin turned his head and smiled, and Quasimodo took that as a permission to join him. 

“It’s a very warm blanket”, he answered as Quasimodo stopped next to him. “And a very beautiful view.”

“You should see it in summer evenings.”

“Oh, it must be stunning.”

Quasimodo wrung his hands. “I’m not sure if it’s good for you to talk. I think your voice would get better if you let it rest.” He looked nervously at Clopin, half expecting him to be angry at someone like Quasimodo giving him advice, but he did not. 

“Ah, Quasimodo, my friend”, he said instead, “I’m sure it would. But there is simply too much to talk, isn’t there. Just look at me. The king of gypsies standing on top of the world wearing nothing but pants and a blanket.” He smirked impishly. Quasimodo gave a shy laugh.

“Thank you”, he said then, coughing, and Quasimodo turned to look at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean thank you”, Clopin repeated. “You saved us. You saved her. And after everything you still helped us today.” Quasimodo blushed vigorously and looked away trying to hide it. 

“It was nothing”, he mumbled, but Clopin disagreed.

“It was much more than that”, he said and now his voice was quiet again.

“And I wasn’t alone!” Quasimodo continued. “The captain was there, and all of you, I just…”

“I held a body of a dead child today.” He startled. Clopin’s voice was still hoarse from the smoke, but now the tone was open, raw. “I couldn’t save him.” He looked straight ahead, and Quasimodo looked at him. “I couldn’t save his mother. Had you not come last night, we would have lost so many more, and I wouldn’t have been able to save them.” A tear that had formed under his eye fell down his cheek. Quasimodo felt awful.

“No, that’s – “

“And here you stand.” Clopin glanced at him at his side not showing any signs of shame even though he was _crying in front of Quasimodo_ – oh what should he _do_ – and turned back to the sunrise. “A man raised by a monster whose hatred for my people was in his very bones. A man who risked his life defending people to whom he owed nothing. We, well, I, tried to hang you, for crying out loud! And here you stand.”

Quasimodo did not know what to say, or do, or how to act. “Please – sir, don’t cry, please. You are a wonderful king – “ he finally stammered but was interrupted.

“King?” Clopin chuckled and swept his nose with a finger. “King is just a name I took on years ago and others went with it. I am not a real king, and certainly not a sir.” 

“I don’t have a handkerchief”, Quasimodo muttered apologetically. 

“A handker- “ Clopin started and then chortled before lapsing immediately into a coughing fit. “I will never want to see smoke again”, he complained after gaining his breath. “And you should not fear the tears of an old fool.” He smiled gently at Quasimodo, who somehow felt a little better at the sight of that. “There’s really nothing wrong with a couple of tears every now and then.”

“But you should not blame yourself”, Quasimodo said. “I don’t know what more you could have done.”

“Well”, noted Clopin, “maybe for this morning, then, eh?” He tilted his head, watching the clouds slowly turning more colourful. “Because you know, I don’t think I have ever seen a more beautiful sunrise.”

And they watched side by side as the sun rose and painted the land in gold, two kings standing at the top of the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, and thank you if you made it this far. This is my first post on this site ever, and I'm slightly nervous. Anyway, after the cathedral of Notre Dame burned last spring, it took several days for Frollo to stop screaming Hellfire in my head. Long story short, I remembered that despite it's obvious flaws, I really like this movie and especially Clopin. Because who doesn't. And I wrote this.
> 
> If anyone ends up reading this stuff, please let me know if (when) you find any errors, grammatical or otherwise.


End file.
